


Tales From the Other Side

by Lohksparce



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Destcember 2020 (Destiny), Fluff, Gen, Heavy Angst, I Promise They Won't All Be as Depressing as the First Chapter, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohksparce/pseuds/Lohksparce
Summary: They might have been our enemies, but the other races - Eliksni, Cabal, and Psion - have their own stories.My take on the DestCember prompts for this year, but entirely starring either the Eliksni, the Cabal, or the Psions.
Relationships: Original Cabal Character(s) (Destiny)/Original Cabal Character(s) (Destiny), Original Cabal Character(s) (Destiny)/Original Fallen | Eliksni Character(s) (Destiny), Original Fallen | Eliksni Character(s)/Original Fallen | Eliksni Character(s), Original Psion Character(s) (Destiny)/Original Cabal Character(s) (Destiny), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. Exodus

**Author's Note:**

> I'm late to the DestCember fun but I'm gonna catch up. Gotta start out with a nice, super angsty one, and all of them I'm gonna try to keep sub 1000 words. I'll also be experimenting with other POVs than my usual to to make this extra fun! 
> 
> As soon as I saw the prompt Exodus, I knew what I had to write.

Everything smells like ash and dust and blood.

His Kel's ketch was chaos. Eliksni are everywhere, disoriented. Hatchlings are squealing and screeching somewhere. There's choked sobs and mournful growls as loved ones clutch each other. Some just sit in silence. They don't know what to do. He doesn't either but he tries to console whoever he can, but it's so hard. Everything hurts: his scrapes and bruises, the gash on his face, sore joints from running and running, his heart.

It left them. The Great Machine, their patron, their god. It just... left. Darkness came. Buildings exploded left and right, and debris fell. So many were crushed. He saw a Vandal try to rescue a friend trapped, but a falling chunk took them away before his eyes. Fires rage. Screaming metal struggles to stay up. What Eliksni were left had race to Ketches and take to the stars. The brilliant visage of the Great Machine disappears into the stars and leaves them to die. It betrayed them. They loved it and he thinks it loved them, but it is a traitor.

Why did it abandon them? It was a monster.

Rage and anger make his chest hurt but he tucks it down inside.

The Archon passes out what blankets and supplies they have. He tries to help the medics with the wounded, but there's so many. So many. Blood stains his hands and flecks of it cover his cracked rebreather. Some of them don't make it. Kel hasn't decided what to do with them so they just pack them in a room somewhere.

A lull comes in when many of his House and others who escaped to where they could finally sleep.

The Archon stands at one of the side view-ports and just stares out into the black of space.

The ruined surface of Riis floats in the distance, alight with dark and bright fire across its surface. Brother and sister Ketches fly beside them, scarred from the chaos and full of refugees from their Houses and others. He sees Wolfships and Winterships. Somewhere behind were Devilships and Rainships. Where other Houses were... Likely dead. Gone. Could not get to Ketches in time. Ketches with the colors of Stone and Scar are no where in sight. No smaller Houses. Or maybe they went another direction. Black stars fell from the sky, and they flew the paths they could.

All it took was a matter of hours to lose everything the Eliksni people had worked for. Billions of lives lost.

Where will they go? How will they recover?

His people have nothing now.

The Archon lays his head against the thick glass of the view-port and Ether-tinged tears make his eyes glossy with moisture. His legs give out and he sinks to his knees.


	2. Thin Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ice lets a lone Wretch find himself.

Europa was a new experience.

He had been born in Wolves, survived long enough to see the remnants crumble. Then they came to Earth and he was of Dusk. The Nessus, the Time-Walker world. Here, they had a city: Riis-Reborn. The Wolf Archon had told he and the other hatchlings about the old times, the beautiful world they had.

Riis had been full of life, and Ether ran free, until it didn't.

A cousin had told him that Earth had snow too in the coldest season, but he hadn't been there long enough to see it before his new crew took to the stars and stationed on Nessus to salvage the human's Golden Age tech. His cousin liked the snow. They were gone now but they would have loved Europa. Snow was everywhere, ankle deep in places and others it was waist high. Thick chunks of ice jutted up from the earth, pristine and glimmering in the day's light, covering over ancient human bases.

He liked it too.

It was cool on his skin and plates. He could heft snow up on the end of his Arc Spear and toss it onto his fellow Dregs and Wretches, and make them screech at him until the snow wars began. Those were fun. He hadn't had fun like that since he was a hatchling. Fun had ended soon, and then the battle preparation began. Now there was building. Creativity, in the lower holds of Riis-Reborn. An old Captain taught them bits and pieces: painting, drawing, a few musical instruments, weaving. It was too soon to tell if it would become popular, but he enjoyed it.

Raksiks huffed out a breath of vapor into the air and watched it float towards the sky. The blizzards of Europa had coated the area in a thick blanket of snow, and he trudged through it, chittering and kicking it up into the air. Days on Europa were long, and the salvage crews were focused on building: it was easy to sneak out since he wasn't on a work shift yet. Snow fights were fun, but so was exploring on his own.

Using his spear to slow himself down, the Wretch slid down a snow bank, throwing snow around him and satchel bouncing along behind him.

His spear caught in the ice.

Raksiks yelped, spear wrenched from his hand. He scrabbled for purchase beneath the snow, sliding down the bank and cursing his docked arms – a second set would've been great to keep him from crashing into some rock. His claws found a hard chunk of ice and he grabbed onto it. Snow and ice bits tumbled down past him and Raksiks clung to the handhold. He let out a sigh of relief. He would be a laughing stock among the other Eliksni if he got stuck in a snow bank and had to be rescued.

The Wretch blinked snow out of his eyes and looked back towards his spear. It wasn't too terrible an ascent. Thankfully, the bank wasn't very steep. Raksiks dug his clawed boots into the snow and found a foothold beneath the snow. One step at a time, he inched towards his spear, feeling out more safe spots to grip into. Piles of snow fell off his arms and legs, and a face full made him chitter.

He found one more foothold and dug into it.

A deep crack broke the peaceful silence.

The ice shifted and sunk down beneath his body. It sung like a Servitor's melody and the ice gave way beneath Raksiks with a cacophony of crackling. Raksiks screeched, free-falling down beneath the surface of Europa. This was it. This was how he died. He went out to have a little time to himself and managed to break through the ice like he was a heavy Kell stomping on old metal. He shut his eyes. At least his last months had been the best of his life.

Raksiks hit the ground and all the air in his body hopped right out of his mouth.

A minute passed. The Wretch opened one eye.

He wasn't dead?

His other three eyes opened, and shafts of light smooching his face made him close them right back up. he took a few breaths, testing his arms and his legs before slowly sitting up. His back hurt, and so did his head, rear end, and legs, but he was still here. Still alive and kicking. Thankful. He had survived many battles but to die to a fall? It would embarrass him long past his actual death.

Raksiks grumbled under his breath and checked his satchel: it still had his art supplies. A few colors were broken in half but they were usable. Shame though, those weren't easy to get a hold of. Europa didn't naturally have the materials. With a grunt, he hauled himself to his feet, and caught sight of the cavern around him.

Thin sheets of ice had layered themselves upon the other tenfold like the thick hull of a Ketch.

Hunks of ice jutted up from the floor, and down from the ceiling, untouched for who knows how long. The walls were smoothed and weathered down from storms long passed. The sunlight from above hit it just right, and a million vibrant colors glimmered across the ice in a beautiful dance every time he tilted his head or shifted to the side. He span in circles, trying to look at anything and everything: flashes of blue and glints of pinkish-purple, teasing him before disappearing.

Raksiks finally took a step forward. He peered into the glittering wall and saw a hazy image of himself reflected back. He looked... healthy. His scarf was thick and warm, and his bodysuit fit well. He wasn't as scrawny as he used to be as an adolescent; not as haggard as his Wolf and Dusk days. His colors and a leather-bound book of old papers came out, salvaged from human bunkers, and Raksiks drew himself and all the colors.

He fancied himself beautiful for the first time.


	3. Dearest Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hatchling wants to make a star-wish.

**["Another story!"]**

**["No, it is your bed time. You need to rest. Look, your brothers and sisters and cousins are already sleeping. They await you, little one."]**

The hatchling let out a long, high pitched chirp in protest.

Four eyes stared down at the hatchling, narrowed. The Vandal shook their head. **["You can hear more stories** _ **tomorrow**_ **. Go to sleep** **, Pirhis** **."]**

 **["Can I make star-wish first? Please? Pleeeease?"]** Pirhis cooed, holding onto the Vandal's hands with all of his own, putting on the most wide-eyed, pleading look his little self could manage. He even clicked a few times for good measure, even though he couldn't do it too well yet.

Sighing, the Vandal relented. If they didn't, Pirhis was going to end up waking all the other hatchlings up, and then about fourteen other hatchlings would start whining and wanting another story too. Besides, star-wishes made the hatchlings happy. Gave them hope. Extra time spent doing it was worth it.

The Vandal pushed the nest covers back and lifted Pirhis up into their arms, giving him a cuddle. **["Fine. But after your wish, you will lay down and sleep without complaints."]**

 **["Okay,"]** Pirhis chirped, clinging to the thick purple scarf and nuzzling into it.

They quietly stepped around the clump of slumbering hatchlings, scooting the covers back into the circle with one foot. Pirhis fell quiet, watching their caretaker open the door to the nursery with a few taps on console pad, then his attention drifted to the large Servitor keeping watch over the hatchlings. It hummed at him, and he chirped back. Bright eyes stared at the Ketch's interior, and everything seemed so massive. He wanted to climb the walls and poke at the panels, but he wasn't big enough yet.

The Vandal carried him down through the corridors, passing by a few Eliksni on patrol that waved at him. They stopped outside one of the rounded view-ports, and the Vandal held Pirhis up to the glass.

Pirhis pressed his hands against it, staring up at the night sky. Hundreds of glittering stars hung in the heavens far above the Ketch, obscured only by the occasional wisps of clouds passing by. A big white circle cast gentle rays of light down, and it looked like what Pirhis imagined the Great Machine to look like.

 **["Go on, make your star-wish,"]** The Vandal said, giving him a smile.

Pirhis was quiet, little eyes narrowed in thought.

**["I wish the Great Machine see us again, and that we have home. Big home, not just ship, but like in old stories so we all happy again. Big tall buildings! Lots of climb space. And... and lots of Ether, too. And toys. And... uh, I think it."**

The Vandal's grip slackened for a moment. **["That is... a good wish, little one."]**


	4. Eye for an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ur'aitl hasn't gotten used to lacking an eye yet. Someone ensures he won't be alone.

Ur'aitl looks at himself in the mirror. He scrubs his face clean, careful to avoid the glass eye situated in his left socket. He blinks once, then twice. It still feels strange, not having a real eye. He feels there's something there, but the sensation's not quite right. Hasn't gotten used to it yet. It looks just like his old one. It's the same deep shade of grayish brown. Pupils close to the same, a slit, like all the Cabal people.

The feeling just wasn't right.

He could blink, it moved a little; it was easy to trick himself and think he might still see from that side. The medics said as much though: " _It will take some months for you to adjust to the sensation, and for your body to compensate for it. Carry on as normal, report back if something goes wrong. We'll see you in a month for a return visit."_ Halfway through that month and they were right.

Ur'aitl pulls away from the mirror and finishes washing up for the day. Missing eye or not, he still had things to do, although... not many. Clean up, wash laundry, check the news. That was it. Without war and battle, it was hard to know what to do.

In war, he knew what to do: wake up, suit up, go out, fight. Day in and day out. Now he was home and he didn't have to wake up early (he still did). He could eat when he wanted, relax when he wanted, and there was no worry of an attack. It was just... life.

There was only one thing that made his days less of a slog: memories of Cau'rath, his beloved.

He knew war in the past –they both did, they had been in the same unit. Then a Hive attack caught their unit in the dead of night, and suddenly he hadn't had an eye or a leg anymore. Cau'rath tried to shield him from the blast, but there was no time. That fool still felt responsible for it. Responsible for him getting shipped back and separating them. They were supposed to win together, not break apart.

Ur'aitl frowns and dresses himself for the day; taps his glass eye twice to remind himself. Checks his leg prosthetic; it fits snug and comfortably.He makes his way to the kitchen and a bird is singing a song outside somewhere. He brews a pot of tea that Cau'rath suggested a long time ago. Someone knocks on the door and lets themselves in. Ur'aitl whirls around to face the intruder: he doesn't have a weapon.

Cau'rath is standing there, all bulk and smiles. He didn't look any different than he did–

"Cau'rath, where is your eye?" Ur'aitl croaks out, and he can't make his legs move.

"I had to make sure we matched before I found you again," Cau'rath answers. He lifts up the protective bandages over his left eye: there's remnants of a recent surgery and an ocular implant like he had gotten before the glass eye.

Ur'aitl doesn't know whether to kiss Cau'rath's breath away or smack him upside the head for doing something so foolish. All he knows is that his love is standing there, living and breathing.

"It wasn't your fault, you fool. I told you that. You didn't have to do that," Ur'aitl huffs out, crossing the room. He pulls Cau'rath into his arms, and kisses all over his face.

"An eye for an eye, my love." Cau'rath holds Ur'aitl's face in his hands and kisses back. "An eye for an eye."


	5. Nightmare Before Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Araksiks has the dream again, the one that never leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly but surely catching up to the actual date!

Dregs and Wretches cover the floor of the room, sleeping in piles and clumps like they were hatchlings. They didn't have much to sleep on; just some tarps and worn down pillows, and some human things they'd scavenged up and got the worst of. Their quarters on the Skiff are one larger room, but even still, there's not enough room. There's never enough room, but they make due with what they have.

One Dreg shifts within his pile, rolling onto his stomach, and his docked arms twitch in his sleep. Still hurts. Keeps giving him phantom pains, even while he sleeps. His four eyes are shut tight, but his eyelids jitter ever so often.

_He's brought before the Duskkel, young and ready to join a crew. But he's not happy. Araksiks has been dreading this day. Always dreading it, ever since he was a hatchling. All hatchlings grew up, joined a crew, and worked under a Captain. But there's an induction to it – Dregs are the lowest of the low._

_They don't deserve their lower arms._

_Only if they prove themselves can they get them back._

_Araksiks is positioned in front of the Duskkel by the Kel's Vandals, and he bows. He tries not to shake. He wants to be a baby again, back in the nursery, cared for with gentle hands and soft voices. He doesn't hear what the Duskkel says, just feels himself being pulled into another position. One Vandal holds his upper arms, and another holds his lower ones back. Their grip is tight. Someone approaches, and the footsteps are heavier. His heart threatens to burst out of his chest. Araksiks shuts his eyes tight._

_His screech echoes through the room when the first Arc Blade severs his arm._

Araksiks jolts awake and the stumps of his lower arms flail wildly. He accidentally hits a Wretch in the side, and they grumble at him, not fully awake. He grips the tarp below him tightly, trying to breath through the hazy memories of pain. He swears his arms are dripping reddish-purple blood again and that he can see a limb on the floor out of the corner of his eye.

Another Dreg pressed against him stirs and sits up on his elbows. He shifts and lays over Araksiks' upper back, making the other Dreg flinch.

 **["It's just me,"]** They murmur, wrapping an arm around his torso. **["The dream again?"]**

Araksiks lets out a shuddery breath and leans into the other Dreg. **["The dream again,** **Raaxek."]**

Araksiks feels his scarf being nuzzled out of the way and Raaxek presses his face into the velvety, exposed flesh of his neck, and Araksiks feels his body relax even though his mind spins. Raaxek's scent is heavy upon him, and it's comforting, swimming in it and feeling his coolness. He knows the dream. All Dregs and Wretches do. Dreg fears keep them in line, and docking is their parent.

Raaxek begins to make a noise. It's not a growl or a purr, and its soft and loud at the same time somehow, but it makes Araksiks heart settle. He shuts his eyes and lets himself harmonize, and Raaxek nuzzles him again. It's their own little song, for the days where exhaustion is endless and the nights are filled with sleeplessness. Eventually the soft light of dawn begins to peek through the view-port near the room's ceiling, but Araksiks is asleep again, nestled against his mate.


	6. Triad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go'aurg has his daily routine, the three things he needs most right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me desperately trying not to make all these depressing or semi-depressing.

The sun rising into the sky, shining down upon the Cabal homeworld with gentle rays that break through the graying clouds. One of the usual summer storms is brewing, there's much he needs to do before it comes. Go'aurg looks up at the light golden sky, shielding his eyes with his last surviving hand. There's a haze far into the distance: rain. He figures he still has about two hours before it arrives.

Plenty of time for his routine: medical care, exercises, and a proper diet.

Three things his medic said were key to his recovery.

He sits a flat leather case down on old stone table outside his house and flips the latches, opening it to the fresh air. It's full of medical supplies – bandages, gauze, oils and creams, wrapping. He can do all of his routine in doors but it feels better to do it outside. Get some fresh air and let the sun warm him up. His medic said the fresh air was good for his amputated arm too.

Go'aurg pulls off the wrapping first and sets it aside to be washed. Next comes the extra layer and the padded gauze itself. It's still bleeding a little, but it's more so leftover from the stitches coming out. Soon enough it won't need bandages, he figures. It'll be nice not to have them soon, they tend to itch his skin and it wasn't like he could scratch it safely yet.

He checks his stump for potential infection, cleans the old blood off and dries it, then puts a healthy amount of some cream his medic gave him on it. _Helps keep it moisturized and heal faster_ , they said. It certainly feels good at least. Once his arm is bandaged back up and the used gauze is disposed of, Go'aurg comes back outside. Still has an hour and thirty minutes.

Go'aurg stands near his garden of vegetables and herbs, legs spread. He digs his toes and heel into the dirt, and it's a little warm. He stretches to the left, bringing his stump over his head as best he can. Then he does it to the right. He repeats the motions several times, then switches to rolling his shoulders slowly, feeling the muscles and bones moving in tandem. His bottom lip doesn't appreciate the gnawing, but it helps when the pain flares up or his amputated arm gets too tired. Go'aurg leans down to try and touch his toes, then straightens up. Once, twice, then three times. It burns but it's a good one. Means he's still moving. Not having his right arm isn't enjoyable but he's still alive. Still useful, and that's a victory.

After forty minutes if stretches and exercise, Go'aurg stops and lets his body rest. He lets out a big huff, and nods to himself, satisfied. Good for today, but tomorrow he would try for forty-five minutes. The rain clouds are slowly rolling in, and thunder rumbles in the distance. By the time droplets are beginning to fall, Go'aurg's back in his house.

He gets his stove going, and starts up the oven for some bread later. One arm or two, he can still knead dough and bake things like he used to before the accident. Go'aurg carefully slices some fruit, cracks three eggs into a pan, sprinkles some herbs on them, and heats up some water for tea. Never liked it but what the medic said, he was going to do. Thunder rumbles again, louder, and rain begins to pelt the windows. Its gentle and soothing to his senses. Go'aurg turns around and steps away from the stove while the eggs finish cooking, and watches the rain fall.

It was a good day so far. Three things for his main routine, and all three were completed.

His arm felt better. His mind felt better. _He_ felt better.


	7. Beyond Stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Captain ponders what the future of the Eliksni is.

A Captain, now a Baron Prospect, stared down at his new clawed glove, fit with a shard of the Darkness prevalent on Europa.

What Eramiskel said would lead them into a new Golden Age for the Eliksni.

It gave them the power to combat the Lightbearers closer to their level. He was not immortal, but it was something. He could feel its cold strength beneath his fingertips. Extend a hand and he could conjure a glimmering shard of ice, at his command. Eramiskel said it was not dissimilar to what Eliksni had in the grand times of the past, when Houses were whole and home was on the ground. He had heard tales of it before, when the Great Machine was not a selfish beast who abandoned children, and gave them its strength.

What was beyond Stasis?

He would not speak it aloud. Eramiskel would not see his reasoning. She had a favorite Dreg, a young male who looked up to her like a mother, but he was not that favorite. He didn't have that sway. The Captain understood her fury – if the Great Machine had not abandoned them, they would not be so pitiful. So... Fallen. But was using Stasis to wage another war against the Lightbearers the right path?

They were finally able to build a true home. If the stories were true, it paled in comparison to the vast cities of Riis, but it was something. They had far more room than a Ketch could offer. Warm clothing that wasn't tattered rags strung together. Their hatchlings were safe. They were deep down where the Time-Walkers would never get to. But... Eramiskel waged war against the Lightbearers now. Her Barons were hunting for them. Should they not focus on rebuilding, build up strength?

He didn't want to lose what they had been struggling to obtain again for so long.

Time-Walkers or not, Europa was a home now. Maybe he could have family, raise hatchlings with his mate, and watch them grow. They would be thrust into war if Eramiskel's fury raged on. What had made her even angrier? Before, it was rebuilding. Now it was hatred and she wanted the Great Machine's head on a platter.

What lay beyond if she wished to make a Second Attempt?

They had the dark ice on their side. The City was not as strong, the Cabal had worn them down.

Lightbearers were learning to use Stasis too, and they still had the Great Machine.

The Captain shut his eyes, and listened to Europa's wind howl around him and whipped his scarf up. It gathered up flurries of snowflakes up in its grasp and threw them across the icy ridges until all he could see was gray. He wanted the future to be a good one. He wanted to see beyond the days of strife and war, and into a bright future on Europa. Maybe Lightbearers would be allies, maybe they would still be enemies, he could not see the future.

But he wanted one.

Something beyond.


	8. Tyrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emperor Calus was a tyrant. Now their next Emperor was one too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter one since I didn't like my original idea for it but I still wanted to do something for the prompt!

Emperor Calus was dead.

The news was all over the CabalNet stations.

His Primus of the Red Legion had murdered him and his nobility in cold blood and crowned himself Emperor, all in one night if the reports were to be believed. Calus had rousted the Old Praetorate in a similar fashion.

The CabalNet stations spoke of what he did to the Consul: the humiliation displayed for all to see at the man's coronation. He was a tyrant. He hoisted his decadent ways onto the Cabal people without asking them, but his rule had brought forth... some good things: zoos and gardens, plays, entertainment, and reminded them that life was not all about war. Maybe he wouldn't admit it out loud but he enjoyed them, on occasion. His children did.

Now angry change was rearing its head again. Or'auta held his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes with a thumb. What did that mean for his family? What did Ghaul mean for the Cabal people? A return to war-making? Would those who showed any favor to Calus be punished like the old Emperor did to the Praetorate?

Or'auta sighed deeply. Out of the arms of one Tyrant, and into the arms of another.


	9. Blooming Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kalotam and Thal'aul enjoy their garden, but there's a little something missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adds Kalotam and Thal'aul to characters from these prompts I want to expand on 'cause they're too cute.

Kalotam's thin hands are stained with soft, cool dirt.

Gentle sunlight shines down on his back, warming his skin, but it pales in comparison to the familiar, sunny aura radiating from his husband. Its like a great being wrapping their arms around him at all times, gentle and easy to relax into. Thal'aul's on his knees and focused on the half-planted square of dirt in front of him, and when he's is focused, his mind is quiet. His thoughts are stone dropping through a pristine lake's surface; small, but they echo with power. They're a constant in the back of his own mind, and meld comfortably with his own.

He never delves deeper than the surface though, not without permission.

Kalotam lifts the hose up higher, and sprays water onto the farthest plants in their growing garden. The spring storms enriched the land even more than the previous years, and their plants are happy for it. The river canes are past his waist now. The gourds and leafy greens are thick and healthy. Many of their herbs are beginning to flower, and Thal'aul's turnips are nearly the size of War Beast pups. He'll probably win the yearly Harvest competition again.

Not many would imagine an ex-Colossi would enjoying gardening, but he likes that about Thal'aul. He defies commonality. Furious in war, stalwart in command, and a gentleman in life. And fond of cuddling too, even though sometimes it was... difficult, to work around their size difference. Intimate acts aren't easy when ones spouse is nearly twice ones height and four times as wide.

He loves all of Thal'aul though, he wouldn't trade their love for anything.

Kalotam looks over to his husband and smiles, eyeing the beads of sweat rolling down his face. "Would you like me to cool you off, Thal'aul?"

"Ah, that would be welcome," Thal'aul answers, wiping his forehead off with the back of his hand. He leaves bits of dirt across his head, and huffs out a breath.

Kalotam turns the water pressure down, and then turns the hose onto Thal'aul, dousing him in cool water. Thal'aul lets out a breath, rinsing his hands off and scrubbing his face. Beads of water roll down his leathery skin, and down into his sleeveless shirt, and Kalotam tries not to follow it down. He saw the sight often enough when they bathed together, but it was still nice.

"Thank you," Thal'aul says, and he leans forward to give Kalotam a wet kiss.

Thal'aul shifts and sits down on the grass, pulling off his soaked shirt and wringing it out. Kalotam hooks the hose back on its stand and sits down on his husband's knee, glad to rest after spending much of the day gardening.

"It is a shame there is no competition for best garden," Thal'aul muses. He finds one of his husband's much smaller hands and holds it with the utmost gentleness. "I have no doubt that we would win every year."

Kalotam looked out at their garden. It was on the small side, but it grew every year. Everything was in its prime: bright reds, deep purples, and dreamy yellows and pinks like a summer sunset. Green stalks and leaves were so vibrant it could have been a painting made of the purest hues. There were dainty clusters of white flowers, and thick gray blooms the size of his hand.

Kalotam smiles and leans against Thal'aul's arm. "Indeed we would. Perhaps we should suggest it to the town official. But, I think there is something missing."

He can tell his feelings are radiating outwards like gentle waves. It was a shame he could not share the full extent of them with Thal'aul, but he does not stop them from casting outwards. Maybe he feels them a little.

"And what is that? If we lack a flower, we should obtain it."

Kalotam beams, giving the Cabal's hand a squeeze. "A little someone to share it with."

He wonders how he'll react. It was something he had been thinking of, but hadn't brought up. He was content as they were, but the idea of having a child running around, playing while they gardened made his heart soar. They could show them a seed growing from something tiny to something grand, and watch their child bloom in the same way.

Thal'aul stares for several moments and then it hits him. He thinks it over, lips pursing into a little shape. His dark eyes gain that old but ever-present determination.

"Ever the fountain of wisdom and grand ideas you are," Thal'aul says, and he brings the Psion's hand to his mouth, kissing his palm."There are few things I would like to do more than to share in child rearing with you, Kalotam."

Kalotam smiles and presses their triangular mouths together in a kiss, and his aura is bright to even himself.


	10. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was blood everywhere. No one left but him or so he though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very behind thanks to my Internet being out and other things...

The air stunk of blood, even though his helmet. 

He could see streaks of it and pressure suit on his armor through the moonlight sneaking in through cracks in the rockwall. The Legionary looked down at his Slug Shotgun and reloaded. He still had one-thousand or so rounds left; it would have to be enough. Eyes narrowed behind his helmet, the Legionary peeked over his cover. Five targets left, searching for him. Two Taken Knights, a Phalanx, and two Psions. Either he managed to kill them or his body littered the ground like those of his crew. Victory or death. The Legionary readied his gun, listening to the sounds of ghostly footsteps approaching. 

Closer... Closer... 

The shimmering, dark body of a Taken Psion stepped past the rock, scouting the area. He roared and blasted the Taken point blank. Its body folded in on itself like a collapsing star. The Knight's roars echoed through the damp cavern. Thick bolts of Darkness came flying at him but the he rolled behind cover and fired back. A stray slug hit the Psion, but not before it wobbled and split into two. Gunfire sailed by overhead and knocked bits of moss and debris off of the wall. There was a break in the onslaught. The Legionary rose up and fired back wildly - there was little time to aim properly. The split Psion went down but the other Taken kept firing. 

A surge of energy swirled at the center of the Phalanx shield and it fired a blast of compressed Darkness at the rock formation. Stone and plant-life exploded, and the Legionary hit the wall with a thump and a crunch - his armor cracked somewhere. He cursed under his breath and fired: one Knigh5lt went down but the Phalanx and the other Knight advanced, firing. A bolt caught his shoulder clean through and he bit back a roar, diving back into whatever cover was left. 

Blood gushed out of the circular wound, dripping down into his armor. Couldn't lift that arm. He was as sure as dead without a medic, and that was if he survived the Knights. Emperor's eye, it was a big if. The Legionary held his gun around the rock and fired, hoping to hit one or both of them. A surge of return fire nearly took his hand off. Something up above skittered and kicked off the damp rocks, and the firing stopped. A Dreg landed on the Knight with a battle shriek, plunging a shock dagger into its head and firing at the other as the shimmering body crumpled up into nothing. 

The Legionary rose up over the rock to get a look and his eyes widened. He bit back the urge to call the Dreg's name and fired on the Knight while it was distracted. With a well-placed stab, the Dreg took the Phalanx down before it could raise its shield. The wet cavern was silent save for their breathing and the faint gurgle of rushing water. Exhaustion and pain hit the Legionary like a thick combat weight from training and he laid back against the rock with a sigh, feeling warmth rolling down his arm.

{"Crew is gone?"} The Dreg hurried over to him, putting his weapons away and checking for wounds; one hand came away stained with deep red. {"You are hurt, Arait."}

Pylaks' Ulurant was improving.

{"Yeah. Taken ambushed us, and took a lot of us out. Held on as long as I could. Thanks,"} Arait grunted and grit his teeth. {"Knight did it. Hurts something fierce."}

Pylaks leaned his brow into Arait's. {"I am sorry. Taken have been... angry. Come, I take you to my place.}

Arait got to his feet and Pylaks wrapped an arm around him for support. Even with the Legionary's slower pace and having to weave around bodies, it didn't take long for Pylaks to lead him back to his little hideout. The Dreg sat him down on an old human furniture piece called a couch (he picked the word up from eavesdropping on Guardians). With practiced hands, Arait's armor came away, and he held back a shiver at the cool night air hitting what skin was bare. He bit back all but a few pained grunts as Pylaks stitched him up tight, put pressure oil on it to seal it up, and cleaned away all the split blood on his body. The Dreg's velvety smooth hands had been missed, and Arait leaned into his touch, sighing. Emperor damned Taken. At least he was victorious, for their sake. Pylaks bandaged him up, and Arait pressed his dry lips to the Dreg's head.

{"Thank you,"} Arait sighed and relaxed into the couch, even if it struggled to hold his bulk. 

{"What will you do now? You need much rest."} Pylaks cleaned his hands off, and put away the supplies. He found a big blanket he'd scavenged some months ago and laid it over Arait, but not without crawling on top of him, steering clear of his shoulder. 

{"Could try and find another Legion. Maybe get off world, find work with this Spider I've heard about,"} Arait rumbled. He wrapped his good arm around Pylaks. {"I would rather stay with you though, if you'll have me. At least now, I can make up for lost time."}

{" Always, Arait. Welcome always,"} Pylaks purred in a rhythmic tone, the same as when Eliksni comforted each other. 

Arait shut his eyes and sighed again, relaxing against Pylaks despite the throbbing, hot pain in his shoulder. The gel was helping, slowly but surely. 

He opened one eye and looked down at the Dreg, then at the dark, drying splatters on the floor. {"Sorry for bleeding up your home, though."}


	11. Heresy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many would call him a heretic. Matzot cares not.

Matzot built the Y-goblet with the utmost care: not a stone or piece of well crafted wood was out of place. Its y-shaped basin was smooth, made of stained wood that smelt clean and earthy like a forest after a summer rain. The stone that held it was bricks of marble he had found and lugged home, sanded down to perfection with his own two hands.

Every day he cleaned the basin - couldn't leave a single speck of dust in it for too long. All his offerings were planned out, and he had time to acquire them all if he didn't already. For the morning ritual, his ancestors receieved a brilliant blue salt from a coastal town to roughen their skin with. At midday, he would offer them the freshest bread, made with experienced hands (his own), so they could partake of it and be satiated. At evening, he offered clean linens, so they could bind any of their wounds. Normally the ritual was performed daily, but his job as a mechanic had kept him away too long. 

Even at midnight, his ancestors received one more offering to make up for the absence: parchment, so they could recount all their stories and ensure they weren't forgotten. 

Many would call him a fool. A heretic who believed in forbidden, outdated beliefs, even those who practiced, if they were forced to speak on it. They had to, for safety's sake, but they always apologized. Matzot didn't care. These were his beliefs, those of his parents who taught him the old Psion ways, and their parent's parents. He would never forget his ancestors and their beliefs as long as he lived, and one day if he had children, he would pass it down to them. The God-Thoughts may have assumed they wiped out the Psion's true beliefs, but they had failed. 

Even if they could never speak of it aloud, their ancestors would know the love in death they had in life. 

Matzot shuddered as he finished his last ritual for the night and prepared the basin for the morning. The idea of Psions that powerful and brutal still frightened him. To think such a comforting, hopeful thought - that all Psion had a spark of divinity in them - could be so reviled by some of their own people... 

It was sickening. No matter what any God-Thought ever said or spoke in their mind, he would not give up their faith. Even if heretic was burnt into the flesh of his head for all to see, and his skin was flayed with psychic lashes, he wouldn't stop. The Y-goblet was the holy cup into which Psion minds were poured, forever more. 

Once his hidden shrine was clean, Matzot climbed out of the cellar of his tiny home. He put the steadying panels back and then the floor boards - no one would know it was there save for he himself. Before bed, he scrubbed his face, dressed in night clothes, and made sure all was in its place.

In the snow falling gently onto his windowsill, flake by flake, Matzot drew the Y-goblet with his finger. 

By morning, it would be gone.


	12. Roses and Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh how he loved his dear, thorny rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one went a bit over 1k words but I didn't find a stopping point I liked under that 1k. Apologies for any weirdness too, like lack of italics for Oro'moli's text. I couldn't manage to edit it or copy it properly on my phone.

Valus Oro'moli was known by many names: The Beast of the Blind Legion. Crusher of Cadets. Twenty-Time Champion of the Annual Crab Eating Contest. 

Valus of Thorns. 

The scarred Valus wore all his titles with pride, save for the most secret of them all. Or at least he said he did. 'If any find out, I will keel over and die on the spot, and I will fall on you and take you with me.' Even if someone found it out, they'd likely be too terrified to speak it in public or refuse to believe the big, scary Valus Oro'moli was also called Rose.

Or Rosy, when he wanted to tease him and get him turning a magnitude of shades darker than a fresh-cooked crab. Then Oro'moli would throw eaten crab legs at him like they were children at the dinner table, and he would just laugh. A crab leg to the forehead didn't hurt much and there was never any malice in Oro'moli's dark brown eyes, only affection and amusement. It was when the Valus got quiet that one could tell he was genuinely upset by something. Few had the pleasure to see such a wonderful side to the Valus and have their own special title for him.

Quartermaster Maul thought himself a lucky, lucky Cabal. 

Not many could say they got courted in one of the most romantic, innocent ways either, let alone by someone with a notably prickly personality. Emperor, really, who left unsigned notes full of poetry and prose for one to find, with a rose attached, no less? It was like something from an old play, adapted from an even older book, and performed by a famous troupe for all to see. He still had every note the Valus had given him too. All were kept in a secret chest, safe and sound, and no more crumpled than the day he received them. On the long days when Oro was gone, Maul would pull them out and reread them. Sometimes he brought them out just to tease his Valus and get pillows tossed at him instead of crab legs. 

Even while Oro'moli was out traversing space in search of Vex relics - they were off to Nessus this time - he found a way to not only send him a note but get a huge bouquet delivered straight to his door! Emperor knows how he managed it. Probably using unauthorized CabalNet connections and half a month of savings. Majority of the bouquet was roses, with wildflowers sprinkled in between: pinks, reds, and the bright gray and blue of a huge coastal flower that smelt like salt and sea. The note wasn't the original - only a copy of it - but it was Oro'moli's poetry and handwriting, he'd know it anywhere. 

-Each day I wake up without thy brawn

My heart and soul lay dormant, woebegone 

I gift sweet life to keep love known

Until I return to thy sweet throne-

Down below the poem lay a tiny addition: 'I'll try to call you as soon as I can. Love, R'

Maul sighed happily and held the note in his hands. Not much seemed to have changed. Just shy of his three hundredth and twenty-third birthday, and Oro still had him feeling like a girl who just got her first tusks; Oro'moli's handwriting was still nigh illegible. A newborn babe could've written a more readable note than Oro, but his experienced eyes knew how to decipher the sloping R's and squat L's. Decades of having to decipher the Valus' requests for himself and others would do that. Confusing or not, Maul was glad for it - Oro'moli's distinctive handwriting lead them right to each other. Eventually. He prided himself on having a good eye. No one could sneak mistakes or secret acquisitions past him, and yet somehow it took him the better part of four months to realize Oro'moli's atrocious handwriting matched that of his secret suitor. 

Keen-eyed Maul, bested by his own blindness.

It was a good thing his older sister didn't know or she would have laughed herself sick.

Maul chuckled and slid the new note into the chest with the others, taking care not to crumple the edges. The chest went back to its spot on his nightstand, and the bouquet taking up the dresser got some fresh water and a dash of plant food. It was a holiday, but there was still work to be done: acquisitions from the Legions to be sorted and archived, orders to fill and send off. He looked out the bedroom window and up at the furious torrent of rain eager to send Cabal to shelter; awful day for a festival. Thank the Emperor he didn't have to go out in that mess. Personal tablet in one hand and work in the other, Maul stopped by the small bedroom adjacent to theirs. Nestled in a plain but lovingly made crib, their adopted son slept soundly, curled around a plush crab. On the way to the office room, his personal tablet hummed softly from a new notification. He already had the call going before he sat down.

"Hey, Rosy." Maul greeted Oro'moli with a smile. 

"Someone best not hear you calling me that," Oro'moli huffed but his cleft lip parted in a smile regardless. "How have Thaugor and you been fairing?"

"We're doing just fine. He's being a sleepy lump as usual and I was just about to go over some requisition orders. Glad I don't need to go out either, the rain's fierce," Maul chuckled. His expression softened and he put a thumb to the screen of his tablet so Oro'moli could match him. "Thank you for the flowers and the poetry, Rosy. They're perfect."

"I'm glad you two are doing well. Give him a kiss on the head for me like usual." Oro'moli tapped his tablet's screen with his thumb. "Glad you like them too. With any luck, I'll be home before I need to send more. Our haul has been extensive this time."

Maul grinned. "I'll ready the ledgers for it all then. I hope so too, it's lonely with you here to pester. I haven't had a pillow thrown at me in months." 

"Don't worry, when Thaugor is older, I'll teach him how to do it in my stead."

"Emperor, I don't need two of you running about," Maul laughed. "He's my only back-up, I need him to take after me."

"Trying to turn our own son against me. For shame, Maul, for shame." Oro'moli grinned, then glanced behind him. "I may have to go soon. Gao'al is due back with a report any minute now."

"I understand. Be victorious out there, Rosy." 

"I will, love." Oro'moli grunted and glanced behind him again. "You're going to turn me into the Valus of Roses one day."

"It's not a bad name. Now go on, Rosy, bring home some milk robot parts for our researchers."

"Quiet, you!"

"Rosy, Rosy, Rosy-"

The call ended and Maul laughed himself silly. Oh how he loved his dear, thorny rose.


	13. Night of the Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night feels good. Running and jumping is even better. His first night alive again and he feels so free.

The Light coursing through him is electric.

He feels it in every inch of his body: from the tips of his clawed toes, up his thick legs, barrel chest and tough arms. It's cold like nothing he's ever felt, not that he remembered anything. Pulsing cold beneath his fingertips, lukewarm tendrils up his spine. It's comforting in some strange way. 

His Ghost calls it Void.

Light gathers in his legs and they work together in tandem to propel him upwards - once, twice, three times. It carries him higher than his Cabal tech ever could, and he feels like he could jump to the stars if he tried hard enough. He vaults over trees, rocks, ruined buildings and broken down cars, savoring the soft breeze caressing his leathery skin. The once-Colossus comes down in a puddle of water and sends a grand wave of droplets splattering onto the grass around him. His heart beats fast but it settles down quickly- exhaustion melts away. He looks down at his hands and stretches long and good. There's an excitement still bubbling in his chest, a sense of freedom and power drawing him towards the horizon but he ignores it. There's more fun to be had. He feels like a child again, ecstatic by their first word or their first steps.

'Have you chosen a name yet?'

His Ghost's voice is soft and pleasant as when he first woke.

"Not yet. I just want to keep moving. Everything screams at me to," The once-Colossus says, letting out a breath and he starts again, bounding over the land.

'Well, let me know if you think of one. If you keep moving in this direction, you'll make it to the Last City. Though it's a few days travel on a Sparrow and... well, the City might not exactly welcome you.'

The once-Colossus huffed. "Why ride when I can run? If they don't like me, I'll keep running. There's much out there for me to see."

'Spoken like a true Hunter.'

Hunter. His Ghost had called him that before.

It feels right.

The once-Colossus starts to run again.


End file.
